CLARE nods. The champagne has flicked her courage.
YOUNG MAN. By George! [He leans back] I've often wondered.
ARNAUD. [Again filling the glasses] Monsieur finds——
YOUNG MAN. [Abruptly] It's all right.
He drains his glass, then sits bolt upright. Chivalry and the camaraderie of class have begun to stir in him.
YOUNG MAN. Of course I can see that you're not—I mean, that you're a—a lady. [CLARE smiles] And I say, you know—if you have to— because you're in a hole—I should feel a cad. Let me lend you——?
CLARE. [Holding up her glass] 'Le vin est tire, il faut le boire'!
She drinks. The French words, which he does not too well understand, completing his conviction that she is a lady, he remains quite silent, frowning. As CLARE held up her glass, two gentlemen have entered. The first is blond, of good height and a comely insolence. His crisp, fair hair, and fair brushed-up moustache are just going grey; an eyeglass is fixed in one of two eyes that lord it over every woman they see; his face is broad, and coloured with air and wine. His companion is a tall, thin, dark bird of the night, with sly, roving eyes, and hollow cheeks. They stand looking round, then pass into the further room; but in passing, they have stared unreservedly at CLARE.
YOUNG MAN. [Seeing her wince] Look here! I'm afraid you must feel me rather a brute, you know.
CLARE. No, I don't; really.